


Be mine for a while babe

by carolion



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Marking, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolion/pseuds/carolion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're so dumb, dude," Patrick says, rocking a little on Jonny's lap in triumph, as if Jonny breaking the kiss was some kind of victory for Patrick. "I could do so much better."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be mine for a while babe

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to take a brief moment to apologize for my writing style. It's still a little rusty and sloppy, and there are way too many run on sentences in this thing. But it's a PWP and I'm just pleased I'm completing things. (I swear I'm working on something with a plot. I swear!) Hopefully it's still enjoyable :)

_You have beautiful veins,_ Patrick thinks inanely. He's got his thumb pressed firmly against the soft spot under Jonny's palm, rubbing against those strong but strangely fragile tendons, and he can't stop staring at the paleness of his skin, the way the blue of his veins stand out almost electric underneath. Patrick's eyes flick up to Jonny's face, where his neck is bared and his mouth is open, panting shallowly as Patrick circles his hips down, slow and grinding. 

He looks ridiculous, his face a mess of emotion, contorted because he wants to hold back and stay controlled, but he _can't_ because Patrick knows him too well, knows how to push his buttons and test those carefully maintained boundaries. The result isn't attractive, but it's so typically Jonny, it's the very stupid, controlling, freakjob essence of him, that Patrick has to bury his face in Jonny's neck to smother his smile, using teeth to press a stinging kiss to the underside of his jaw. He squeezes Jonny's wrist in his grip tightly and nuzzles his way up to his mouth, hovering. 

_You have beautiful veins, but stupid bunny teeth,_ Patrick amends, reveling as Jonny writhes beneath him, body flexing dangerously. Jonny, who makes the stupidest faces on the ice, makes even stupider faces in bed, and Patrick loves him all the same, almost ridiculously so, not only in spite of, but perhaps because of all the ways Jonny is dumb and unattractive and inexplicable. Patrick wants to lick into his mouth and claim those teeth for his own, he wants to suck on the skin of Jonny's wrist and leave marks, bruise up those beautiful veins so no one else will see his quiet beauty, so no one else will want him the way Patrick does, constantly.

He's possessive and consuming when he bends to kiss Jonny on the mouth, breathing in and out of him like they can share oxygen like this without it being gross. It is gross, stale and warm but Patrick keeps kissing him and kissing him, almost competitively until finally Jonny turns his head to the side, making a face and laughing a little.

"You're so dumb, dude," Patrick says, rocking a little on Jonny's lap in triumph, as if Jonny breaking the kiss was some kind of victory for Patrick. "I could do so much better." _But I don't want to,_ he doesn't say.

Jonny doesn't say _Fuck you_ , but he squirms his right wrist free of Patrick's death grip, and latches it onto the back of Patrick's neck to drag him down for a brutal, breath taking kiss. It's dirty and deep, and Patrick loves it, gives everything up immediately to it. Jonny's stupid bunny teeth latch onto Patrick's lower lip and pull, and Patrick's limbs go weak as adrenaline spikes suddenly through his body, his core collapsing as he moans encouragingly. 

Jonny's teeth don't seem so stupid now. In fact, Patrick wouldn't mind if he used them a little bit more. 

"I'm the best you're ever gonna do," Jonny says when he finally lets go, his voice a low rumble. It's kind of unbearably sexy, and suddenly Patrick wants to ride him into the mattress, wants to draw the filthiest words from Jonny's mouth, wants to leave such obvious, obscene sex scratches on Jonny's skin that the boys in the room will catcall at him when they get changed for practice and for games. 

"Yeah?" Patrick asks, goading, but he's grinning in that helpless way, the way he always does around Jonny. 

"Yeah," Jonny affirms confidently, smirking back. 

He scoffs and shoves a hand onto Jonny's face in a careless way, smothering him briefly as if to wipe the smirk off, and kneels up to yank off his underwear, already damp from sex sweat - and they haven't even gotten to the fun part yet. 

"Take off your clothes," Patrick orders haughtily, because Jonny still has his jeans on, and they're rough against Patrick's skin. Some other day he might be interested in that following that little zing of arousal, but he doesn't want rug burn on his junk today, just wants a sweet, slow fuck, and he can't get that if Tazer's still wearing his pants. 

"Get off me and I will," Jonny snaps back, hands already down to his fly. 

He takes too long. He always takes too long to do everything, because he has to do it the _right_ way, instead of the fast and fun way, which is of course how Patrick likes to do things. Still, Patrick loves to watch Jonny's hands when he touches himself, and watching him strip - even if it's slightly awkward as he shimmies out of his clothes while still laying on the bed - is close to porn for Patrick. 

It _is_ porn for Patrick - he's going to get an orgasm out of this little show, one way or another. 

But then Patrick starts to pay attention and realizes Jonny isn't wearing underwear underneath his jeans, and Patrick lets his mouth gape open in shock.

"Holy shit Jonny," he breathes, "what the fuck."

Jonny turns red. "What?" 

Like he doesn't _know_. 

"Have you been like that all day?" Patrick demands, crawling back on top of him, hands sliding smoothly up Jonny's hairy thighs, and he can't match the expanse of them even with his fingers splayed wide. 

"Yeah." Jonny shrugs. "It was, uh-" he goes even redder, it's amazingly hot, "-interesting."

"That is so fucking hot," Patrick tells him fervently, and falls forward to kiss him once more, getting turned on all over again just thinking about Jonny's naked skin in those jeans, how his cock and balls rubbed up against the fabric all day, how it was probably distracting and maybe a little bit painful, maybe a little bit good too. 

_You make me so stupid all the time,_ Patrick thinks as they make out. Jonny's hands slide up his bare back, his thumbs pressing reassuringly at the dips of Patrick's shoulder blades, not rubbing or stroking, just holding, firm and comforting. It's not such a big deal to be stupid around Jonny though, because he's safe with him. Jonny protects him, on the ice, off the ice, to the media and to the team, and Patrick knows that's his way of saying _I love you, you idiot,_ even if Jonny's still a little too emotionally stunted to say it out loud.

Patrick has said it out loud a bunch of times to Jonny, but not like in a movie-montage kind of way, where they're staring into each other's eyes and holding hands or whatever. He doesn't have to say anything like that, Jonny already _knows_. 

"I need you to fuck me," he groans into Jonny's mouth. 

Jonny smiles against his lips and one hand on his shoulder blade shoots up to the back of Patrick's head, his fingers twining roughly in what's left of his curls, the little tail of Patrick's playoff mullet. 

"Maybe I don't want to fuck you, with this fucking hair," Jonny teases, pulling hard. It barely hurts, just tugs Patrick's face away from Jonny's so they can stare evenly at each other. 

Patrick scoffs. "You love my mullet," he accuses, "my mullet makes you feel superior. My mullet won us the _Cup_." 

Jonny starts to laugh and stops, though the smile is still on his face. The hand in his hair stops pulling and starts stroking, and the other slips down to hold his waist, resting on the curve of his hip. 

"Your mullet didn't win us the Cup, Patrick," Jonny says fondly, " _you_ did."

Patrick can see too much affection in his eyes, all the love he never says out loud spelled out clearly in his gaze, and the depth and intensity of it makes Patrick shiver and _want_ to say it, his heart beating hard in his chest. 

"Oh yeah," Patrick says, as if he'd forgotten - as if he could ever forget that. "Will you fuck me for that then?" 

Jonny does laugh this time, his head tipped back into the pillows. 

"Only if you promise to do it again this year," he says, and Patrick knows he's only sort of joking. 

"For you? Sure," Patrick says flippantly, and Jonny's face is fond again, like he has faith that Patrick will do it again, that their team is good enough and determined enough to get there to the end. 

"I'm holding you to that," Jonny warns him, and shoves Patrick off his lap to lean over the edge of the bed and dig around underneath it, because Jonny is a freak of nature who thinks it isn't classy to keep his lube and condoms in the bedside table _like normal people_ , and stores his in an old shoebox under the bed. 

("That is the fucking dumbest thing I have ever heard," Patrick had shouted at him the first time they'd fucked at Jonny's house. He'd been naked and hard, and super ready to go, fumbling with the drawer of Jonny's night table, looking for the essentials when Jonny had explained where he kept them, and why. 

"It's not dumb! At least this way my mother won't ever find them by accident." Jonny had retorted, sulking a little.

"I literally cannot believe you are an adult! You are an adult by society's standards, Jonathan, and you keep your rubbers and lube _in a box under your bed!_ ")

Whatever. He's used to it now. Besides, the view isn't all that bad from this vantage point. 

Patrick sits back on the bed, legs in a butterfly, and stares because he's allowed to, because he _can_ , and runs a thumb casually from the crease of his bended knee up the soft part of his thigh, just skirting around his hard cock, curving up towards his stomach. The slow, lazy touch makes him shiver, building the anticipation in a roll of want as he watches Jonny's back flex and sit up. 

"Come on slow poke."

"You know," Jonny drawls, shoving Patrick flat down on the mattress, "you're not cute."

"Lies," Patrick says smugly, sprawling his legs so Jonny can kneel between them easily. "You love me. You think I'm adorable - fucking adorable." 

He absolutely doesn't make an embarrassing squeak when Jonny grabs his legs and shoves them up. 

"Let's just say you're lucky you're a good lay," he murmurs, the lying liar. Patrick does agree that he is a fucking _fantastic_ lay, though, and doesn't argue.

He just huffs a little and let's himself relax as Jonny touches him, gentle but sure. His hands skim over Patrick's naked skin in a patient, methodical way, like checking for bumps and bruises, but more intimate, more knowing. Jonny's checking his reactions, listening carefully for every hitched breath, paying attention to where his muscles quiver, and what he can do to pull those reactions from Patrick again. He groans and buries his hands in Jonny's hair when Jonny lowers his head to kiss Patrick's nipple chastely, just barely closing his lips over the hard nub. His embarrassing, half-grown playoff beard scratches indelicately against Patrick's sensitive skin, and he sucks in a breath at the friction, knees clenching briefly again Jonny's waist. 

Jonny pauses - he definitely noticed that - and then deliberately turns his face to the side, rubbing his cheek a little firmer against Patrick's chest, and now his bristles are catching Patrick's hard nipples and _fuck_ it's making him squirm, gasping. 

"Don't - don't be a dick," he stutters, trying to grind up to get some cock on cock action at least, but Jonny (the yoga-attending freakzilla) just gracefully curves his hips away, arching his back and refusing to let Patrick get any form of friction where he wants it mostly. 

" _Dude_ ," Patrick says with feeling. "Fuck me." 

He's not pouting. He's _not_.

Jonny lifts his head to peer up at him, looking obnoxiously self composed. "That's what I'm trying to do, _dude_ ," he mocks - what an arrogant asshole.

"Put your fingers. In. My. Ass." 

Jonny laughs like he can't help himself, but he fumbles briefly when he unscrews the lid from the jar of Astroglide, and dips two fingers in, clearly not going to argue against Patrick's brilliant instruction.

It's not really hot watching Jonny lube his own fingers, but Patrick watches him hungrily all the same because this is a routine as familiar to him as warm up stretches, and it triggers the same kind of hindbrain automatic reaction as always, this ceremonial prelude to sex, this same flare of heat and impatient arousal, desperate for skin on skin, to be filled up, to get fucked into. 

He loves the way Jonny looks when he's concentrating, particularly when that concentration is turned on him. Whether it's while they're playing hockey, or while in bed together, or even just talking casually, Patrick always feels steadier when Jonny is focused completely on him, with no other distraction. Maybe it's selfishness, but Patrick thinks there's more to it than that. It's intimate. It makes him feel like he's the only thing in Jonny's world, and that sucker punches the air right out of him, more than anything else could. 

"Breathe, Kaner." Jonny looks amused, and he's shifted so one of Patrick's legs is hooked over his shoulder, tilting his hips up even more, and rolling him so his head and shoulders press hard into the mattress and pillows. His long fingers are pressing gently at Patrick's hole, not really pushing, but teasing at the resistance, his fingertips sinking in and pulling out in minuscule increments. 

Patrick just nods, jerkily, and lets out a rattling breath. It's the anticipation that always gets to him, he thinks sourly to himself as he bites his bottom lip. Jonny fucking loves to push. 

Jonny does love to push, but he's not cruel, and soon he's slipping one long finger in, and fucking him smoothly. 

It's not like Patrick really needs a ton of preparation or whatever - some obviously, he's not stupid - but he knows that the real reason Jonny likes to take his time isn't _only_ for safety measures. 

It's because he absolutely loves fingering Patrick. 

He gets off on working Patrick up, and getting him to that point where's he wordless and thoughtless, grabbing at the sheets and thrusting back onto Jonny's fingers, begging to come, begging for _more_ , telling him that his fingers aren't enough, that he needs Jonny's cock in him now, now, now, and he'd be good, if only Jonny would _let him come..._

Patrick grits his teeth around a grunt of pleasure as Jonny slides the second finger in. He keeps his gaze up on the ceiling, but he can still feel Jonny's eyes on him, studying him closely. It's not always a power struggle when they have sex. Sometimes it's easy and fluid and free. But both of them are too competitive not to fight each other a little, just for fun. 

"You're pretty like this," Jonny murmurs, startling Patrick. Usually Jonny stays quiet and let's Patrick do all the talking during this part; he revels in it, in fact. 

"Or - not pretty, not really. You're hot. You're fuckable." 

Patrick laughs at that, derisive, but Jonny twists his fingers and curls his knuckles, just a little, just so they press and expand inside Patrick's ass in a way that has him biting hard on his lip again, just to keep from whimpering. 

"I love getting you here like this, eager for it. You're such a shithead, always goading me into a fight, but here you're just taking it, desperate for it. Letting me in. It makes me crazy, makes me want this all the time." Jonny says, and his voice is a little gentler now, even though his words are filthy, but his fingers don't stop, pressing hard and fucking in a little faster. It's not prep any more, it's fucking sex.

He slides one hand up Patrick's thigh, the one resting along his shoulder, and squeezes meaningfully as he stares down at Patrick.

Patrick groans and looks up, meeting Jonny's eyes. They're quiet and steady, and so dark Patrick swears he can see his own reflection in them, looking flushed and sweaty, a little pained. He closes his eyes again, licking his lips to wet them, and nods minutely, rolling his hips in a downward shove, just to feel Jonny's fingers sink in deep almost to the third joint. 

"Yeah," he says softly, his voice catching. He clears his throat a little and opens his eyes so Jonny can see, because Jonny is a freak who loves to stare at him, bore into his eyes like he can see into Patrick's soul or something. 

"Yeah," he repeats, stronger this time, "okay."

Jonny's face when he smiles is like a raincloud breaking up. He pulls away for a minute, and Patrick misses his warmth, feels empty and achy without his fingers, and flexes his legs, feeling stiff without Jonny there to hold him up. Patrick breathes and wants, concentrating on the pool of heat in his stomach, the deep throb of arousal between his legs that demands attention, and heroically doesn't touch himself. That's Jonny's job, and he'll be jealous if he sees Patrick doing it himself. 

It's only a minute, and then Jonny is back, hovering and waiting, his fingers tapping gently against the ridges of Patrick's ribs to get his attention, as if he didn't have it already, as if he didn't _always_ have it. 

Patrick covers his hand with his own, squeezing a little. 

"Go slow," he says softly, blinking up at Jonny. "Okay?" 

Jonny's face is still, but he squeezes Patrick's hand back. He leans down and presses a kiss just below Patrick's jaw, on the softest part of his neck, and then leans up to press a kiss to Patrick's forehead. It is, without a doubt, one of the sappiest things he has ever done, and Patrick wants to roll his eyes or tease him, but all he does is sigh into the touches, his heart full and fragile. 

"Okay," Jonny promises, and pushes forward, his cock slick and demanding as it slides in inch by inch. 

It's easy to give to Jonny, like this. It's easy to yield, it's easy to accept, even if Patrick has a stubborn streak like a mule, and wants to dig his heels in everywhere else, this is where he gives. It feels good, stretched wide by the thickness of Jonny's dick, a slow ache that gives to pleasant pressure as he adjusts. It feels like fulfilling a need, or completing a circuit, something he'd never admit to Jonny, and he loves it, the way they just seem to click together, puzzle pieces fitting. 

It's always been that way, from the beginning, before they even started this -- this thing, whatever it was, a relationship, fucking, being weird about each other. They were paired up back when the franchise was desperate and grabby, clutching to their new stars and pouring hopes and dreams and dollars into them. It paid off then, and they're still crammed together for every silly commercial, every promo event, every opening montage. They're _Kane &Toews_ to the world, a package deal. 

It used to annoy him. Now he's fiercely proud of their partnership, terrified of the day - if it ever comes - when they might have to part ways. 

Now especially, as Jonny's hips snap forward and bury him deep, and Jonny's head hangs over his chest as he pants for breath, muttering something like "so hot, fuck, feels right, god, _Patrick_ " low enough that Patrick can barely make out the words, he is desperately glad that he's the only one to get this. He feels self righteously possessive, and curls his arms around Jonny's back, digging his nails into the soft skin there to leave half-moon marks as he clings, pulling Jonny even closer. 

_Mine_ , he thinks, stupid and instinctive, childish. He flexes his hips up and Jonny moans, a ragged sound that's only for Patrick to hear. This is no one else's right, no one else can have this privilege to see Jonny in his rawest state. Patrick _earned_ this, with wins and losses, through injuries and slumps, from rookie year to Stanley Cup, and every year he learned Jonny, the intricacies of him, the failures and the strengths, and he loved him bright and shining every moment. He can't breathe, imagining the day Jonny will want to settle down with some girl and raise a family, produce strange, serious clone children that will all be just as single minded and devoted to whatever they do, just like their father. He doesn't want this to end, he thinks hazily to himself, digging his heels into Jonny's ass as he thrusts, _ever_.

It's not some revelation. Patrick has known it for a while, just the way he's known Jonny has loved him for a while. But the future is far and gaping, and Patrick doesn't want to waste his energy mourning something he hasn't lost yet. 

Jonny's on his elbows, his arms bracketing Patrick's head as he fucks into him with rhythmic, controlled thrusts. His cock feels so good, pressing on all the right places at all the right times, and Patrick rides it out, gasping indistinctly whenever his own dick gets touched by Jonny's sweaty, rocking body. Jonny's muttering mostly swears, but Patrick thinks he hears some French phrases thrown in now and then, and it makes him feel smug that he could drive the English right out of Jonny's big dumb head. 

"Like that," he encourages, scraping his nails down Jonny's back. (He hasn't forgotten his wish from before, to debauch Jonny's skin so all the world can see.) "Like that, fuck me like that, a little more - not _faster_ , just more, c'mon Jonny." 

Jonny growls at his instruction, but he screws his hips harder, deeper, and Patrick is rewarded with a stunning array of stars behind his eyes, and suddenly he's the one swearing and groaning. He turns his head to the side because he can't look at Jonny's face, he just can't, not when he's this close to the edge already, _fuck_. When his eyes flutter open, he can see Jonny's wrist, pale and perfect right next to him, and it makes him want to laugh. His tendons are straining, holding him steady, and his blue veins snake around them, starkly standing out. 

Patrick does the only thing he can in this situation; he tilts his head forward, and kisses Jonny's wrist, laying his lips over his thin skin, gentle and worshipping.

"Fuck, Pat, fuck," Jonny gasps, and his rhythm stutters, two sharp snapping thrusts that have Patrick whimpering, spikes of ungodly pleasure in a haze of good feelings. 

He bites down, because this is doing it for Jonny, this weird, intimate touch, and Patrick wants to make him come, wants to make him lose his mind. So he sucks on the spot where Jonny's wrist seems the most vulnerable, and drags his fingers down Jonny's back, encouraging him to go for it, to use Patrick to get off. 

Jonny hunches over him, whimpering, and his fists clench as he hammers hard into Patrick's ass, quick shallow movements that shove them both up the bed until the headboard is rattling against the wall, banging dangerously enough that Patrick might have to check for dents the next day, just to be sure. Patrick sucks a little harder, nipping as he pulls away, and then licks the ridge of his tendons, tongue bumping over them as he soothes the mark he made. His mark. His body. He _owns_ Jonny, in a way that the Blackhawks could only dream of, wholly and completely, and when Jonny breathes his name, burying his face in Patrick's neck as he comes, Patrick feels his anxiety about the future bleed away, driven out by simple truth - he knows that Jonny doesn't want this to end either. 

Patrick works a hand between them to try and jerk himself off, but Jonny bats his hand away jealously, rolling them so he slips out and they're on their sides, facing each other. Jonny jerks him fast and hard, muttering filth about Patrick's cock, how nice it is, how he loves to suck it, swallow it down. It's enough to get him to hump into Jonny's fist, fucking it with gasping breaths as his ass flexes, sore and stretched and empty. 

He looks down to where Jonny's grip is wrapped around his cock, fingers slipping wetly over the head, and has to bite his lip roughly when he sees the mark on Jonny's wrist, red and angry, blooming purple already. It will fade, Patrick knows, but seeing it there now, and _knowing_ what it means is enough to send Patrick over the edge. He groans, low and deep, and comes hard all over Jonny's forearm, another mark of ownership. It's a bone deep satisfaction, and Jonny holds him through the orgasm, still whispering encouragement in his ear before kissing him sloppily, all happy endorphins and love and post-sex bliss. 

"What am I going to do with you," Jonny asks rhetorically, when they've both rested enough to come down from their highs. 

Patrick looks at him through his eyelashes, heart stuttering at the impossibly affectionate expression on Jonny's face, dopey and relaxed. It makes him ache. It makes him want to kiss him. It makes him want to fuck him twice more, until neither of them can even stand up afterwards, legs like jelly. 

He looks away towards the streaky shine of his come drying on Jonny's strong forearm, and then lets his gaze drift to the mark on his wrist, small and unassuming nestled underneath Jonny's palm. 

"Keep me, I guess," he says lowly, going for casual. 

From the way Jonny hooks his arm around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss, his lips firm and pressing, Patrick can guess he missed 'casual' by a mile. 

"Yeah, maybe," Jonny teases, smiling with teeth. "For a little while anyway."

Patrick grins back at him, all dimples and eye crinkles, because Jonny said _"yeah, for a little while"_ but it sounded more like _"yeah, forever"_ to him.


End file.
